


Of Inappropriate Thoughts and the Promise of Later

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Teasing!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Something Donovan says at a crime scene brings up some rather erotic memories for Greg. And Sherlock...well, he's Sherlock.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, John would be playing with lions and Greg and Sherlock would be...well, I'll leave that to your imagination ;)
> 
> Written after a brutal few days at work, and inspired by a conversation with the lovely CindyLouWho. Sherlock's use of 'laterz' in ASIB still makes me smile. 
> 
> There is reference to sex, but no actual sex, so I marked it 'Teen.' If anyone disagrees and thinks it needs to be higher, please let me know. 
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Feedback is loved :)

Greg felt his eyes flutter closed: it had been an absolute fucker of a morning, and now that Sherlock had arrived on the scene his exhausted body was giving up the fight. The call about the murder had come through from the victim’s distraught girlfriend within fifteen minutes of his shift starting, and things had quickly gone downhill from there. 

He had no idea of how much time had passed, but eventually someone joined him, leant as he was against the far wall. “Late night, was it?” came Donovan’s voice, and Greg blearily opened his eyes to glare at her. 

“How'd you know I wasn’t just up at five to go for a jog?” he asked, looking away to focus on the crime scene. The body of Emily Thornberry was still on the floor, still lying in a pool of blood, still had a knife in her chest, and her left hand was still missing. 

Donovan laughed. “Yeah, right. Any more ideas about this?” she asked, nodding towards the body.

“None,” Greg sighed resignedly. “If hands are removed it’s normally both of them, and it’s to prevent identification of the body, but they left her ID with her and her girlfriend called it in. Makes no sense, does it?”

“Nope,” said Donovan, popping the ‘p’.

Long moments passed, the two of them watching the proceedings in silence. Sherlock was a whirlwind of activity, darting around the large room and pointing out apparently important things to Anderson and his chief SOCO whilst John stood to one side, nodding intelligently. Though it was an unseasonably warm spring day, Sherlock was dressed in one of his designer suits and was yet to remove his coat.

Greg’s second was seemingly more in tune with him than he had realised, for she broke the silence with a huff. “How does he do it?” she asked, eyes trained on Sherlock. “It’s just not natural to have to have that much energy. Does he ever sleep? Or sweat, even? Everyone else ditched their coats within five minutes, but’s he’s prancing around dressed like it’s below freezing!”

Her words, though perfectly innocent, sent Greg’s mind whirling away in a very non-innocent direction; the image of Sherlock, gasping and desperate, a sheen of sweat glistening upon his pale skin, thrusting against the mattress as he was mercilessly rimmed assailed Greg. Despite knowing that such thoughts were wildly inappropriate at a crime scene, he couldn't stop the rush of arousal or smirk that curled his lips at the memory of the previous night. “Yeah, he does, actually. Sweat, I mean. Sleeps, too, sometimes, once he’s been tired out.”

Silence reigned for a long moment until Donovan jerked away from the wall as though electrocuted. “No! No, no, no!” she exclaimed, plugging her ears with her index fingers. “We had an agreement, Lestrade: I wouldn’t rib you about shagging Holmes, and you would keep the details to yourself!”

Greg grinned unrepentantly. “There wasn’t a whole lot of _rib_ ing involved, but—”

“—Oh, God, stop! I’m never going to be able to un-see that,” she moaned, sounding pained. 

“Un-see what?” John asked pleasantly as he and Sherlock approached. 

“You don’t want to know, believe me,” Donovan replied sternly. “Suffice it to say that Lestrade's going to pay. Big time.”

Sherlock stared at Greg, eyes intense and knowing, a smirk playing about his mouth. “I’ll catch up with you, John,” he said, waving his friend away with a pale hand. 

“Yeah, okay; I’ll be at the café round the corner having lunch,” the doctor replied, and left with parting nods to Greg and Donovan.

“Unless you wish to be further traumatised, Sergeant Donovan, you might want to go and tell Anderson that the missing hand and evidence you need to convict Thornberry’s girlfriend is likely wedged inside the drainpipe,” Sherlock said, though his eyes had yet to leave Greg’s face. 

“Fine. Do you want me to go after the girlfriend or wait for you, Lestrade?” she asked after a moment, and Greg, who knew her well after several years working together, could hear the amusement in her voice. 

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be with you,” he replied, and Donovan walked away towards Anderson and his crew. “You alright?” 

“No.” Sherlock stepped forward, closing the distance between them until Greg could feel the heat of his partner’s breath against his face. “You left without saying good bye this morning: I woke up alone.”

“You were asleep,” replied Greg, eyes dropping to Sherlock’s full lips. “We had a late night and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Hmm. It was a _very_ late night, and you have a _very_ talented mouth; I would like to repay you in kind,” Sherlock said, his tone of voice pure filth. “My flat when you’re finished."

“Christ,” Greg said, closing his eyes futilely against the images his mind was supplying. “Did you really have to say that when I’m at least five hours away from clearing this up?”

Sherlock smirked lasciviously and turned on his heel, stalking away towards the door. “Laterz!”


End file.
